Well, not quite, anyway. But I'm pretty effed up.
It's a long story.
It wasn't the tequila-soaked raisins or the lead-laden cedar chips or a
meritless prosecution or the Don Sphinx cat this time that killed me. No. No. No. No.
It was a snow shovel. It seems that if you shovel snow for a couple hours it can give you a pretty bad chinchilla heart attack.
Go figure.
But I don't blame the Home Depot. After all, it was the only place around that sells teeny, tiny snow shovels.
The big snow last week left me without power and I had nothing to eat or drink in my burrow. So if I didn't try and dig out from the drifts, I was gonna die anyway. The thing is, when you're dealing with snow drifts that stand higher than you do, you're pretty much screwed if you don't have help with the snow shoveling. And when I didn't hear from Owen for a couple days, I knew I was fucked.
So I bundled up with my coat, mittens and black baseball cap (the magic hasn't worked in months or I would have just used it to get rid of the snow) and started shoveling. After the first hour, I had worked up a good sweat and so I took off my coat. By the second hour, I had cleared about a foot of snow, but I still couldn't see my
chinchillamobile. Then, sometime by the third or fourth hour, I got this really tight feeling in my chinchilla chest that felt like Owen and a couple of his buddies were standing on me like they had one time at the Delta Phi toga party a few years ago.
I don't know what happened next because I passed out. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed where a nurse with really hairy arms was poking me with a needle.
Turns out I had a severe heart attack and they had pronounced the chinchilla dead. I thought that was strange because I didn't have any after-life experience. I thought for sure I was going to hell. But I didn't see Satan or Jesus or even Elvis.
The good news is they're letting me use a laptop in my bed. The bad news is the chinchilla's going to have one helluva hospital bill if they ever let me outta here.
